


And Hope For the Best

by lastcrazyhorn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Harry Potter is Not the Master of Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28080816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastcrazyhorn/pseuds/lastcrazyhorn
Summary: The future is a dark gritty place, painted with cheery overtures of unity and harmony within magical peoples.  The truth is far from it.Harry Potter, after retiring his persona as saviour of the magical world, has been pulled backward through time in order to stave off this ghastly future time.Unfortunately for everyone around him, he's more than a little broken, and has been for quite a while.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 48
Kudos: 222





	1. One-Time Saviour

**Author's Note:**

> No promises on this one, folks. 
> 
> All I know is that I have two weeks coming up where I'm off from work, and that this story won't leave my head.

Harry Potter, one time hero, long-time hermit, stared in befuddlement as the walls of his cottage suddenly shimmered and shook around him. At 110 years of age, he had seen quite a lot in his time, but this was a surprise. 

His surroundings flashed and shook once more before abruptly fading from existence. He found himself sitting atop the hill that had housed his cottage, sans the building itself. No one was in sight.

On a whim, he asked the ambient magic around him for the date, and then stared in disbelief at its message.

July 31, 1991.

_Lovely,_ he thought.

He shook himself and turned to go down the hill before stopping and tapping his head gently. 

There weren't any wards here yet. 

One more tap to the head, and he turned and apparated silently.

Hogwarts' gates loomed in front of him, and he cocked his head to the side in question.

He tapped on them with an outstretched finger and they sent off welcoming sparks in his direction. 

"Open, please?" He asked.

His voice was hoarse from disuse. It had been a long time since his last assignment. He hadn't passed his last mind eval, but that had been over two years prior. He had a feeling he would pass now, if he could find the man. If the man was a healer yet. If he had been born yet. If if if.

He tapped his head again and entered onto the grounds. 

And stopped. Lord. It had been a long time since Hogwarts had felt this warm, this inviting.

He wiped at his cheek with the butt of his hand, and then pulled out a handkerchief when he realised it wasn't enough to stem the wetness dripping down his face. He wiped his face carefully and took a breath and held it. He took another. He wiped his eyes once more and didn't miss having to wipe around his glasses. 

He had gotten rid of them sixty years ago. Later. He shook his head and decided to do the math when he was alone.

Maybe.

He meandered up the path slowly, keeping his pace down for the sake of his partially numb leg. A cutting curse on the battlefield had spilled his guts onto the grass in front of him, and severed many of the nerve endings in his hips and low back. It had split his face, and he had narrowly avoided losing an eye.

He carefully put the memories of that time back into its mental box and patted the cover lightly. 

He had learned, through much pain and suffering, to keep his emotions and actions under a calm and cool exterior. Things tended to explode when he didn't, and he was tired of cleaning up glass.

Hogwarts sang to him as he entered her doors, and he touched the nearest wall in thanks. He had only been her headmaster for two very troubled years, but even though it was yet to come, it seemed she remembered him. Magic could be wonderful.

_It could also be hideous_ , he thought. He pushed that thought back in its box and slid it behind a tapestry. He didn't need the clutter of that thought filling his mind. 

He came to a stop in the Great Hall, mouth slightly open as he stared at the four long tables standing magnificently before him. Empty tables, but room for all who needed a place to sit. He trembled as he stood in the doorway, clutching desperately at the wall. Four tables. Four houses. Four _equal_ houses. 

Four.

Absentmindedly, he rubbed at the side of his face; fingers no longer catching on the brand that had been there for a time.

Four. 

Hogwarts' magic embraced him, and bled through him with righteous fire.

_She_ had brought him back. He knew it. There were things to be fixed, and it seemed that he was the one to fix them.

He closed his eyes to the empty tables before him and rested his head on the wall. 

He didn't want to be the one. He had never wanted to be the one.

He sighed and opened his eyes. He turned on his heel and headed for the stairs, trudging wearily toward Dumbledore's office. He knew the man would be there. Hogwarts' had assured him of it when he had wondered. 

He would be the saviour, just this one last time. He would be the saviour for Hogwarts, for Slytherin, for those yet to be killed, for those yet to be tortured, for those who had yet to be born. He would listen to her plea, and then, when it was over, perhaps he would die. 

He doubted he would get his wish, but then again, he had doubted ever having this much of a chance again. 

Wiping his face once more, he looked at the gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office and spoke.

"Tell the headmaster I'm here for a job interview. I don't care if he doesn't have any openings. I'm not leaving until I'm hired."


	2. Interview

"And your name is?" Dumbledore greeted him, a questioning look in his eyes.

"Henry. Henry Slytherin."

It was true. It was also not true. He had changed it, yes, but not yet, despite being many decades in the past. 

He had taken on the name of "Slytherin" when the tides first began turning, when the dark waters first began mixing together. He had changed his name to get away from Potter, to get away from being the _public's_ hero. He could be a hero on his own merits, by his own choices, his own actions. He could be a coward. He could be anything, but as Harry Potter, those many other options were closed to him. 

Henry Slytherin wasn't a loud man. He wasn't brash or average or even particularly good. He could be intelligent as Henry. He could be radical as Henry. He could be himself, for once in his entire bloody life. 

And it felt good, even after they persecuted him for it.

Dumbledore surprised was a look he had not seen often enough. He hoped to see more of the man like this.

"I wasn't aware there were any left of the main line."

"There weren't," He smiled.

"And yet, here you are?"

He gave his history; the one had perfected after many years of research. Adding a brother into a line that had been blasted off the Black family tree was easy. In his fiction, that man had been a squib who'd married a muggle woman. He had later been with another woman, and produced a bastard. Henry's fictional past led back to that bastard. It was impossible to trace. 

"I am verified by the goblins at Gringotts. I have the family ability."

He hoped he might still be verified. If not, he had already done it once. What was another time around? He had a feeling he'd be having quite a few of those.

"Care to demonstrate?"

"If you like," Harry answered, heart speeding up. 

In the future, such a request was one tantamount to death. It wasn't here.

_Not yet._

Dumbledore pulled out his wand and conjured a small grass snake that slithered across his desk.

* _Are you lost, little one?*_ Harry asked.

That got its attention--and Dumbledore's.

_*Where am I?*_

_*Inside.*_

"Fascinating," Dumbledore interjected. "If I may?" He asked, raising his wand ever so slightly.

"Yes, yes, of course." Harry responded, waving a hand dismissively.

He didn't like wands, especially not raised ones. He tamped down on the urge to flinch and turn away as Dumbledore ended the spell.

"You said you were here for a job? What are your interests?"

"Defense," Harry said with a bitter twist of his mouth. 

. . .

Albus studied the man in front of him. It was impossible to judge his age; though from the weariness around him, he'd wager than he was older than Severus, possibly Minerva too. His hair was buzzed very short, mostly white in the spots where it was visible. A ghastly scar ran from the top of his head down the left side of his face, before disappearing under his shirt. 

That surprised him. The man wore no robes, appearing instead in only a long sleeved black shirt and black trousers. 

He privately wondered how the man--this _Slytherin_ \--would get on with Severus. 

He hoped he would be able to hire him and find out.

. . .

"Are you any good at it?" Dumbledore asked him, blue eyes staring at him intently.

"Curse me and find out."

Dumbledore whipped out his wand and cast three spells in quick succession at him. He caught them all in his hand and then opened his fingers to show three glowing balls of coloured light dancing upon his palm.

"What in the world?" Dumbledore whispered.

"I have learned how to catch magic," Harry answered, a tired smile upon his face.

"And wandlessly, it appears," Dumbledore said.

Harry smiled slightly. 

"I don't care for wands, myself."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose in disbelief. 

"How will you disperse the spells in your hand? Can you tell what they are?" He asked, clearly fascinated.

"Last question first," Harry answered, patiently. "Spells have a feel, generally speaking; some even have a taste, depending on their severity. Luckily for their discernment, you picked relatively low level ones. You cast a Leg Locker curse, a _silencio,_ and a stunner. In that order. As to how I get rid of them? Watch."

He raised his palm in front of his face and blew gently across it. The balls of light fluttered and fell off his hand into nothingness. 

"Fascinating," Dumbledore repeated, staring fixedly at him. "What would happen if you had thrown them instead?"

"Explosions, mostly. I have a talent for those as well, though I try to keep that under wraps as much as possible."

"How do you cast, then?" Dumbledore looked as if he were dying to ask more questions--many more questions--but was keeping them to himself for the time being.

To answer, Harry put his hand out and made a flicking motion with it. 

"I can send spells forward with a wave of my hand, but for small spells, I tend to _flick_ them."

"Show me?" 

"If you're ready?"

At Dumbledore's nod, he flicked a spell in his direction. It leapt from his fingers like a beam of light and the other man batted it away with his wand.

"Quite intriguing, Mr Slytherin," Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled fiercely. "Will you teach me how to do this as well? Or your students, should I hire you?" 

Harry leaned back and put his hand on his chin, eyes looking at nothing as he thought how to answer the question.

"Perhaps, if I am hired, I will offer the option to learn to the seventh year students. It isn't particularly difficult to master, but one has to be rather in touch with one's own magic in order to achieve success. Pure persistence can help too."

"Did you learn it from someone?" Dumbledore's eyes were probing, and he leaned across the desk toward Harry.

A half smile appeared on Harry's face as he answered.

"It's my own creation. Perhaps if we get the chance to know one another better, then I will tell you the details surrounding that creation."

"Have you a wand then, at all?" Dumbledore asked him instead.

"Yes." 

Harry pulled his wand from the wand holster in his sleeve. It was seven inches, somewhat rigid, and one end was sharpened to a point. 

"Goodness!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "That looks rather sharp on one end. You haven't ever used your wand as a weapon, have you? Physically, I mean."

"Of course not."

_Yes._

Of course he had. Of course. Of course.

He rubbed the side of his face and looked back at his former headmaster.

"Could I inquire as to its core? Or cores?" Dumbledore eyed him curiously. "And why is the end like that? I feel there must be a reason."

"Powdered ashwinder eggs, for one. The others, I will reveal should we become better acquainted."

"More than two?" 

He didn't answer. 

"Will you tell me the wood?"

He sighed.

"Yew. And yes, I know, just like What's-His-Face."

The name, "Voldemort" was still a taboo in the future, but so was "The Dark Lord." Many Death Eaters had been caught with the latter, and many of Harry's personal group--at least before they figured it out--had been caught with the former.

"What's-His-Face," Dumbledore gave a short laugh. "I like that. But you know, his name is Voldemort. You can say it. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

He fought the urge to spin in his seat to see if anyone had come through the door or the floo for the use of his name. It was too soon.

 _Too soon_. 

He rubbed the side of his face again and smiled weakly at Dumbledore.

"I'm not afraid of _that_ man," He said. 

"Then why the use of 'What's-His-Face'?"

Harry pursed his lips as he thought of what he could say.

"Habit, perhaps. I'm a bit of a slow learner. Once I learn something, I have difficulty unlearning it."

"But can you?"

"Hmm?" He asked, briefly confused.

"Can you unlearn things?"

"When the situation calls for it."

He rubbed the side of his face once more for good measure and then tucked his hand under his leg. Dumbledore was looking at him strangely, but he doubted he would be up to explaining that behavior any time soon.

"Tell me, since we got rather off track," Dumbledore smiled ruefully. "What is the pointed end for?"

"Ah. I use it for writing runes, primarily. Mostly small ones, or if I am writing many, I find it easier to do so with my wand. On occasion, I have transfigured my wand into a pen for muggle situations. It's a good method to keep the muggle world from wondering too much about you."

Silence reigned as they stared at one another for a long moment.

"Well, I hate to tell you," Dumbledore finally broke the silence. "But I already have my Defense professor position filled," He sounded reluctant to be sharing this bad news.

"I'd be willing to only take the younger years. Or the upper years, if the current professor prefers. I also have a good hand for preparing Potions' ingredients, and if necessary, I could be willing to help teach that class as well. I know all too well the joys of students first beginning their introduction to Potions' class."

"I take it you have taught before?" 

"Yes. Many times."

He had taught, in some limited capacity, quite a number of potions to students of all skill levels. He wasn't certain he would go so far as to call them "classes," however. 

"Tell me, if you would, how old are you?"

"110." 

"You look quite good for a man your age, if I may say so. I will be 150 at the end of this next month, and I feel I am beginning to look it."

Harry felt the urge to blush. Strange, he hadn't felt the need to do so in many many years. 

"War wears on its participants," He answered instead. 

"Ah yes, I suppose you would know about that. Were you in any of these last wars?" 

"None recently."

A truth. And a lie.

"Mostly I have been involved in reconnaissance. And on occasion, espionage."

Truth. 

"Intriguing. I hope you will tell me about it later." 

Dumbledore stood up, and he followed. 

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor Slytherin. I'm certain we can find some kind of place for you. I can't wait to see the other professors' faces when they learn of you," Dumbledore said with a grin.


	3. Down the rabbit hole

A house elf had taken him to his assigned quarters at Dumbledore's behest.

"You be calling for Flipst if you be needin' anything, sir," The house elf had told him.

"Tell me, Flipst," Harry had had a thought that needed tending to. "Is there an elf here by the name of 'Willnot?'"

"Willnot be only a baby, sirs, and not for ordering about!" Flipst squeaked at him indignantly.

"I didn't know," He soothed. "I won't order him anywhere. But would you ask him if he'd be willing to visit me some time? He doesn't have to," Harry hurried to say. "But I have a feeling that we'd be friends, and I like to have as many of those as possible."

Flipst's face calmed at his words.

"I be tellin' Willnot and his parents."

"Thank you," Harry breathed, already anticipating Flipst's response.

"Humph!" Flipst popped away without another word.

He smiled into the empty room for a moment before shaking his head. 

Ever since his time spent in the Forest of Dean--he pointedly did not think about with _whom_ he had spent that time with--he had carried all of his belongings on him, at the ready for his next upset. 

This definitely counted.

He sighed and pulled out a pouch from underneath his shirt. It hung around his neck at all times, and though the contents changed from time to time, the majority of it did not. 

Money. Gringotts' gold was eternal, or so he had been told. He hoped that it was true, despite the _time_ that it had come from.

Thankfully, the bag was limitless and weightless, and easily hidden with just a touch of his magic; so there was no need to explain the bag's existence to the outside world. 

He pulled it off his head and opened the bag that was barely larger than a modest size coin purse. He pushed his arm down to the elbow and fished around for a moment before pulling out a shrunken trunk. That task done, he carefully slung the bag back around his neck and willed it back into invisibility, absentmindedly shoving it back under his shirt as he did.

The trunk he resized with a wave of his hand. 

He opened it now and pulled out several articles of clothing, sending them floating back to various spots within his new bedroom's wardrobe. This trunk was primarily composed of wizarding clothes, but not much else beyond a few toiletries. It was easily replaceable and could be left out of his bag for anyone to see. 

Next, he pulled out his wand and strode over to the doorway. Hogwarts' innate defenses were all well and good, but if he wanted to be able to _relax_ here, he'd have to bump them up to another level. 

"No offense," He murmured, patting the wall beside him.

Laughter sounded in his head, but no other response.

He used the pointed end of his wand to "carve" runes into the doorway of his quarters' entrance. He didn't actually use the point to carve the runes; rather, his wand did the work of cutting marks into the stones in front of him. He merely guided the lines.

Foremost on his list were runes for privacy, runes for being alerted to danger; all common auror level concerns. The things that made him separate from normal sufferers of paranoia, things that made him perhaps worse than Moody--even in his latter days--were what came next. Protections against floods, bombs, poisonous gases, radioactive debris and waste were only a few of the sigils he carved. Some of them had been invented by him and others like him, and though he knew the chances of their happening _now_ were wonderfully slim, he still could not shake the need to do so.

Next, he strode back into his closet, next to the places where his clothes now hung, and touched the wall with a whispered word. A portion of the wall slid inward, creating a crawl space big enough to house a man his size, and then a bit deeper. With a shake of his head, he slid forward into the cold hole created by his magic.

It was a bit like crawling into a stone horizontal grave. It was completely dark inside, somewhat like having his own shelf in a morgue. He transfigured a door on one end from a loose rock, and spelled it to be airtight. Next, after opening the door again and sliding back out, he asked Hogwarts to provide blankets and a pillow for his hiding hole. He inscribed a rune for heat, adding stipulations as to the kind of heat he required. He spelled the space for breathable oxygen, and then asked Hogwarts for another favour. 

Two favours, actually.

The first was another little door on the deepest end, opposite from the entrance. He asked if she could create a door that led to somewhere safe, with the understanding that _somewhere_ could potentially change, depending on the situation and the state of his mind. 

The second favour he asked of her was far more morbid.

"If I should die, I would hope that you could allow knowledge of my death to be shared with the headmaster and the staff."

_And if you should be grievously injured?_

It surprised him to get actual words from Hogwarts.

"Then, let those same individuals find a way to me," He answered, giving a nod to his extra door.

Those preparations completed, he headed for the door that would lead him to the hallway. 

. . .

Dumbledore called for Severus only minutes after his hiree had left his office.

Minutes later, the floo flared, and the man in question stepped through with a harried expression on his face.

"You said you needed to speak with me about something that was urgent enough it couldn't wait until dinnertime?" Severus began in an accusatory tone.

"Yes, yes," Albus waved his hand. "Tea?"

Severus glared at him and didn't move.

"Oh, please sit down, my boy. It's not terrible news. At least, I _hope_ it's not," He said, frowning at his desk.

"Your words fill me with confidence," Severus sneered, his tone sarcastic as he sat down.

"I have hired someone that I hope will be able to ease your teaching burden."

Severus raised an eyebrow at him, and he hurried to continue.

"They offered to take on your first three years of potions' students. Obviously, I told them-- _him_ \--that I would need to speak with you first, on whether that was amenable, but I can hardly imagine it would not be." 

Albus opened his hands genially, hoping to placate the scowling man opposite him.

"I'm assuming he has some sort of credentials? Some sort of ability?" Severus retorted.

"He's very adept at defensive magic," Albus answered instead.

Severus rolled his eyes heavenward, clearly asking for patience.

"I told him that I thought you would have your own tests to make sure he was up to par. He said he's taught a number of different subjects in the past."

"Uh huh."

"I also intend to offer him to Quirrell."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea. Leave me out of this entire farce," Severus answered, standing up and heading for the floo.

"Don't you even want to know his name?" Albus asked.

"I feel as though I have no other option other than to do so," Severus said, stopping briefly in front of the fireplace and turning back to glare at him.

. . .

Harry headed for the dungeons after he was satisfied by the preparations within his own rooms. 

Satisfied wasn't quite the word, though. Preparations never ceased; they only paused.

He wanted to talk to Snape, and ask for his blessing to continue the plan that he and Dumbledore had tentatively set into motion. He had a feeling that it would not be easily accepted by the other man.

He was right.

He found Snape in one of the student labs, brewing what student-Harry would have thought to be an obscene amount of potions.

As an adult, it only seemed right that Snape was brewing these more common potions there in the relative open. The man most certainly had other more sensitive potions bubbling away in his private labs. 

He wondered if Snape was waiting for him. 

One glance at the man's scowl, and he was almost certain of it. 

"Albus says you claim to be a Slytherin. I have to wonder where you were during the last war?" He said by way of greeting.

Snape could be surprisingly blunt when he chose to.

Of course, the _last war_ he was referring to the one that was ended by the Boy-Who-Lived. 

But Harry chose to interpret it as _his_ last war; which was a war some 90-odd years in the future.

"I do my best work in the background," Harry answered truthfully.

He didn't dare compare them. He knew that Snape would only take it as an insult. 

"Hmph," Snape spat out. "Left to right, what are the first three potions you see?" He added with a bark.

"Burn paste, Skelegro, and," Harry squinted at the third bubbling cauldron, "Dreamless Sleep. But," He took a step forward and eyed the ingredients surrounding the station. "That's the Greggory variation."

"Acceptable. What is different about this variation?"

"It's roughly 20% stronger, for one."

At Snape's expectant look he sighed.

"18.3%, I mean."

_Silly me_ , is what he didn't add.

"And?" 

"It's frequently used for those who have allergies to the traditional recipe."

"Hmph," Snape said again, his tone only slightly less caustic. "Follow me."

After a couple of stasis spells on two potions in the corner, they left the lab and headed down the hall.

Snape opened the door to another lab, one a bit darker and less well kept, by the looks of it.

"I want to see you brew any three potions of your choosing," He instructed, pointing at the wall of ingredients set to their left.

"Any time limits?"

"Don't waste my time," Snape sneered.

This was easily the most civil Snape had _ever_ been to him.

Harry pulled out three cauldrons down from the shelf and very carefully washed each until he was relatively happy with the results.

Pulling down ingredients in what might have looked like a haphazard manner to anyone outside the profession, he quickly found himself falling into the trance that potion making often left him in. 

Potions were soothing, provided he had the time and resources--both personal and physical--to make them.

At the end of two hours, he stepped back from his last cauldron and eyed Snape expectantly. 

"I would not have expected you to pick these three. The . . . last is notoriously difficult to make correctly. And yet," Snape trailed off, sniffing at his cauldron delicately. "And yet, it has been made to perfection. Tell me, why are you so proficient at making the potion for recovering from the Cruciatus Curse?"

"Background work, remember?" Harry answered, cracking a grin at last. 

"So you were involved in the last war," Snape murmured. 

"More than I could ever tell you," Harry's voice broke, and he looked away quickly. 

He felt--and ignored--the urge to rub his face.

"Well, I suppose you could help me teach these dunderheads about Potions," Snape said at last.

"No promises that they'll retain anything," Harry responded cheerily.

"No promises that I won't kill you before the end of the year," Snape retorted.

"I look forward to it," Harry grinned. "Of course, you'll never get the antidote if I'm dead, but, at least we'll go out in style."

Snape scowled at him for a moment before the corner of his mouth tilted upward in the ghost of a smile.


	4. The Sorting

Harry couldn't sleep. Students would be arriving tomorrow for the feast, and he would be seeing so many whom he had already _mourned,_ who had already _died_ , or worse, had been the cause of so much suffering . . . He pushed the thought out of his mind. 

He would see himself. He had swung by Privet Drive and had seen his "family." He had overheard his uncle yelling about the _"freak"_ to his aunt. He knew that no matter what, he would have to face himself at some kind of level.

Quirrell had agreed to let him teach the first three years, as had Snape. That meant that he'd be seeing all of his peers each and every day.

He turned over in the bed in his quarters restlessly, and pulled his pillow over his head. 

They weren't his peers anymore. People like _Dumbledore_ were his peers now. If that wasn't slightly mindblowing, he didn't know what was. Even Snape was young. Snape was so fucking young.

He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Throwing off the covers, he found his feet and went to his closet. He opened the door in the wall and clambered in. The warmth he had spelled in his hole felt good against his now frozen feet. 

He pulled the door closed behind him with his toes, and turned over carefully in his hidden spot within the wall. The closeness of the space around him let him relax, and the darkness surrounding him meant he didn't care if his eyes were open or not. 

He burrowed into the squashing covers he had and cast a cushioning charm at all of the hard surfaces around him. Braining himself in a small space might be hilarious later, but his head wouldn't appreciate him in the least.

He sighed lustily and covered his face with the cover. He'd have to relearn the problems of the times. He'd have to relearn the faces around him. He'd have to remember that these were only _children_. Despite what atrocities they might have committed in the future, despite what tortures they might have experienced in the future, they were still only _children_ here. They were an unfinished product here. 

He turned over on his stomach and clenched his eyes shut. 

He couldn't react to their eventual decisions. He scratched his cheek and pressed his face down firmly into the squashy warm stone below. After a moment, he lifted his head and breathed, turning himself to the side in the process.

. . .

His dreams were dark. 

His dreams were usually dark, but this past month had been hard to endure, and that was just from seeing the professors and the staff around him. His waking hours felt like dreams, and his dreams were decidedly nightmarish. 

He had long wondered if Snape would be _approving_ of his life's path. 

When the tides had first turned in Britain, they had done so very slowly. At first, only known Death Eaters were banned from shoppes and businesses, but over time, their family members had been included as well. Not too long after, it had been pointed out by someone in the Auror department (possibly Ron, possibly not) that since most _known_ Death Eaters had been Slytherins, then Slytherins were also to be shunned. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been a Slytherin, had he not? Snape had been a Slytherin, and despite his posthumous awards (thanks to Harry and Neville), most students were still left with a bad memory of him. The Malfoys had been Slytherins, and Lucius had been in his inner circle, had he not? 

Harry dreamed.

It was a dream of a memory, which in of itself was not so dissimilar to his normal dreams. 

_"Yes, of course, shopkeepers may choose with whom they do business with . . ."_

It was an argument he had heard many times, before the final verdict was decided.

 _"They may also choose with whom they do_ not _do business with, of course, of course."_

 _"_ _Then let it be said that the business owners of Diagon Alley, with the notable exception of_ one _has voted that_ no _Slytherins may set foot in-person in our shops. For the sake of the comfort and safety of our_ other _patrons, of course."_

_"Of course, of course."_

_"Mail orders are still allowed at my shop,"_ _Came the tremulous voice of Madam Malkin._

_Cacophony arose within the chambers._

_"And at mine!" A number of other voices had rung out._

_Harry had looked over at Neville with a dreadful sense of foreboding._

_"I have a feeling that some of those shopkeepers were bullied into this decision, don't you?" He had murmured to Neville._

_"I know they were," Neville had answered, his eyes never leaving the crowd._

_They had fought against this hearing--and others like it--for months. Someone was driving this forward, and Harry had a feeling as to whom._

The dream shifted some five or six years later, and Harry was once again in that same courtroom.

_His expression was horrified as the ruling was read out._

_"_ _All Slytherins, convicted Death Eaters or not, will have their children seized from their homes and placed in new_ appropriate _places; places that will hopefully curb the darkness that was bred into their veins from the beginning. This will be done in the hopes that the future of these children will not follow the vile footsteps for their parents, whom, if given long enough, would surely have lead them astray. This will happen at the conclusion of this hearing; so mote it be."_

_Draco's terrified face made eye contact with his own from across the courtroom, and he was up and running as he instantly knew what the other man was asking._

_Throwing himself past other men and women, Wizengamot members and aurors alike, feeling the panic that was bubbling up within him as he realised the terribleness of what had just been ruled. He twisted his magic around him and punched a hole through the wards of the Ministry, not caring of the trail of destruction that he left behind in his bid to get to Malfoy Manor first._

_He skidded down the path leading to the ancestral home of the Malfoys, the gates opening without his bidding. The doors to the home slammed open as he ran forward, and he found Astoria and little Scorpius in the playroom upstairs, just as he had many times before._

_"We have to go," He gasped out, summoning Scorpius's favourite plushie, as well as both of their travelling cloaks._

_"Go!?" Astoria asked, delicate features paling further as she pulled Scorpius upright and toward the floo. "Go where?"_

_"Anywhere!" He had screamed, pushing them through to Grimmauld Place, and then diving in after them._

_Before the connection closed, he had heard the unmistakable sounds of the anti-apparition wards snapping into place. He had closed the connection and cast a series of location blocking spells behind him into the fireplace they had just been spat from._

He had got them out and sent them to France, care of Fleur and her family. They had sworn Bill to secrecy; they'd had to, given his connections. Astoria and Scorpius hadn't stopped until they'd reached Belgium, and perhaps further, as Harry had told Fleur he hadn't wished to know where exactly they were going. He couldn't tell what he didn't know.

. . .

Harry--no, _I'm Henry. Only ever Henry._

Henry watched as McGonagall brought the first years in. 

His trained eyes caught onto himself very quickly, and he wondered how anyone could have ever thought he was anything but abused.

His eyes slid over to little Neville and his fist clenched below the head table. Beside him, Snape twitched and he turned to look. 

The man's eyes were dark as he stared unwaveringly at Henry's younger self. He poked the man in the side and got a growl for his efforts.

" _What_ do you want, Slytherin?" Snape growled softly at him.

"Potter's too thin."

"What?" 

"Potter's too thin. Wrists are too thin for his age, and he's the shortest in the group."

"Your point?" Snape's voice was silky as he feigned disinterest.

"Look," He said, nodding as one of the other children bumped into Harry. "He flinched, but not in surprise. There's fear there."

Snape growled again beside him, but kept watching despite obvious irritation.

"And is he the only one you noticed?" Snape asked him a few moments later, as Longbottom ran to hand the hat back to McGonagall.

Henry snorted in sour amusement.

"No. Longbottom too. And," He squinted, "That short little boy with the brown hair. He's too skinny. Shifty."

"That's Theodore Nott," Snape's voice sounded very nearly in his ear. "Any others?"

He jerked his head toward the heavy-set black haired girl that had already been sorted into Slytherin. 

"Bulstrode hasn't made eye contact with anyone yet."

"Perhaps she is merely shy," Snape retorted.

"Perhaps," Henry frowned. "But I think it's more than that."

"Have you personal experience with the mannerisms of abused children?" Snape asked, still under his breath.

"Over a hundred years, Snape, yes," He answered, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to stave off the headache that was threatening to bloom from their conversation.

Snape scowled but didn't say anything else on the subject. 

Henry caught him watching Harry for the rest of the feast, though, as well as the other three he had mentioned.


End file.
